


a merrier world

by Chrononautical



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cross-cultural, Friendship, Gen, Minas Tirith, Post-Canon, elves being cryptids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23505112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrononautical/pseuds/Chrononautical
Summary: Legolas makes candy for his friends. As it turns out, that entails something rather different among elves than it might with the other free peoples.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf, Legolas Greenleaf & The Fellowship
Comments: 38
Kudos: 316





	a merrier world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Angelsallfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelsallfire/gifts).



> This was meant to be a short tumblr post for a Quick Fic Emporium prompt, but it exploded. Thank you to [angelsallfire](http://angelsallfire.tumblr.com) for the prompt.

Sprinting along the spindle-thin branch Legolas leapt high into the empty air, just managing to grab the fluttering moth by its thorax. To seize a wing would be to risk losing the insect in the detritus littering the grove. Gondor’s lands were not yet cleansed of that filth carried in by invading armies, though now that Aragorn sat the throne they would doubtless soon be so. 

As an afterthought, the plummeting elf caught a passing branch, flipping himself around it in a simple tuck to slow his own descent. He landed upon a broken spear. Happily the point was flat, and so he paid it no mind. Retrieving the needful items from a pouch at his waist, Legolas carefully milked the lómëmalo onto the petal of a nínqǔalma plucked beneath a gibbous moon; then he grinned victoriously. Nine drops of nectar gathered in the space of a single day was a feat far more challenging than the mere slaying of orcs or shooting of arrows. 

Strictly speaking, nine was a drop too many, but it felt wrong to make one less. To taste írilissë with friends was a deeply amiable communion. While there could be no greater bond than that which the fellowship already shared, it seemed to Legolas that Frodo and Sam might appreciate a more mundane gesture of affection as they adjusted to the ending of their perils. Hobbits cared greatly for the pleasures of the table, which had been both rough and rare for many months. 

Frodo in particular could use a treat. He might take the extra helping, for every chance at joy this world could give him would not equal those hardships he had already suffered. Or perhaps Gimli would care for a second portion. 

Legolas banished that thought as soon as it occurred. 

Certainly Pippin would take a second helping of any tidbit. 

The ninth portion would not go untasted. 

In any case, making nine was necessary, for the fellowship numbered nine. 

Legolas returned to his apartments, a place of great honor within the White Tower of Minas Tirith. Though they were narrow and closed in by the standards of his own people, the room at least provided a private place for him to work in secret on his surprise. Mixing each drop of nectar with a single grain of pollen from a fuméllot just gone to seed was a matter requiring some precision. So too was heating the petals by light of sun through bent glass to evaporate only the excess liquid, leaving each dessert with the signature stardust sheen of sweet crystal. Though his skill was in neither art nor cooking, the elf attempted some little style in the presentation of his offering, arranging the sweets upon bright green leaves and a silver tray. 

At first, he believed his friends were suitably impressed, looking at the shimmering petals with wide eyes. Then Sam spoke. 

“Well that’s right pretty, Mister Legolas, sir. What sort of flowers are they?” 

“Bit sparse for a center piece,” said Pippin. 

“My friends, Legolas presents us with a great honor, not a Shire posy.” Mithrandir’s chiding of the hobbits was unwarranted, for it was only natural that they would not recognize a delicacy of the Greenwood. That such words lightened the heart of Legolas was to his shame and not his credit. 

Indeed, it was only just that the young Took should grumble in return about posies generally being more substantial than a few petals rather than being chastened. 

Yet when Gimli growled that Pippin ought to show Legolas the respect he was due, his censure warmed an elf’s unworthy heart like the summer sun. Almost he failed to grant Aragorn the attention merited by the crown of Gondor, if not their friendship. 

“Can this be írilissë, my friend?”

Bowing his head in acknowledgement, Legolas offered the dish to the Ring-bearer once more. 

“And what’s that when it’s at home?” asked Merry. 

“Elvish candy,” Frodo said, “though I have never been privileged enough to see it. Uncle mentioned witnessing elves partaking of it in Mirkwood.” Taking up a petal, he nodded to Legolas before placing it delicately on his tongue. Closing his eyes to let the flavor linger in his mouth. After savoring it for a long moment, he passed judgment. “Delicious!” Opening his eyes, he pointedly added, “Thank you for cooking for us, Legolas.” 

At once, all the other hobbits looked chagrined, and took up their own treats while spouting many thankful praises given in the manner of their Shire. With as much subtlety as a scout of the Greenwood could manage, Legolas timed the placement of the sweet upon the tip of his own tongue to be in perfect tandem with Gimli’s. 

It was a more fulfilling use of his time than grimacing as Peregrin Took swallowed his own petal whole in a single gulp. Legolas wondered if the hobbit tasted even the most obvious of flavors, eating so quickly. By way of contrast, Gimli showed as much appreciation as Frodo had, if not more. From the back of the dwarf’s throat, there came even a soft grunt of pleasure. With the same symphony of flavor upon his own tongue, Legolas could feel a connection grow betwixt them. It was a moment to be lost in, and only Mithrandir’s voice recalled him to the passage of mortal time. 

“One remaining,” the wizard said softly, and even the young hobbits bowed their heads. 

“Aye, it is right that it should be so.” Gimli’s voice seemed to come from Legolas’s own heart, rooting deep within him and speaking the elf’s uncertainty aloud. “But do we give it to the wind or to the river? I know not the ways of men at such times. A dwarf would give it to the stone, but Boromir has no tomb.” 

“If you will permit me to suggest a different solution,” said Aragorn, “I believe I dare to guess the wishes of my kinsman in this matter.” 

“You may speak freely for all of Gondor,” Legolas replied with no little humor, “and I believe your kinsman would have accepted that in the end.” 

“Cheek!” Aragorn laughed. “Who shall speak such disrespect to me when all of you return to your homelands?” 

“Fortunate it is for you that Gimli and I are sworn to return!” 

“And is that not why you are wedding the daughter of Elrond? I recall her putting you in your place a time or two back at Rivendell.” 

Joking with his fellow hunters usually eased the heart of Legolas, but elven eyes could not miss Frodo’s focus on the remaining petal. As pallor grew in the face of the Ring Bearer, so a great anxiety filled Legolas. The írilissë grew wings within his belly, for it was a moth but that very morning. Well did it remember how to flutter. All his effort toward a gesture of friendship of the type a hobbit might enjoy, only to achieve the exact opposite of his aim. Frodo was not cheered by the delicacy. 

Forth came Faramir, brother of Boromir, at some sign from Aragorn. Princely in his every aspect, the man did not speak but only bowed first to his king and then to Frodo in acknowledgement. Aragorn answered with a smile, but the hobbits were less circumspect. 

“Hullo, Mister Faramir,” said Sam. “I trust Miss Eowyn is keeping tolerably well? Just remembered a fine remedy my old gaffer uses when the weather pains him. Probably not a patch on what Strider can do, but I’ve mixed her up a little batch.”

In yet another show of his breeding and diplomacy, the newly created Prince of Ithilien took this lack of formality well, and smiled upon Sam with nearly as much fondness as Legolas himself felt for the hobbit. He thanked Sam very prettily and with such words as would have befit an elven tongue. Truthfully, Legolas admired the poise and eloquence, for it was not a gift he possessed. 

Then Pippin started in on Faramir’s own health with a strangely dogged air, speaking almost before Faramir finished answering Sam. His opinion was that all three of them ought to fetch said ointment from Sam’s belongings and bring it to the lady at once, citing that a walk might be much to the benefit of Faramir’s recovered injuries. 

As Faramir graciously declined, returning his attention to the king who had not yet spoken, Merry made to leap into the fray, opening his mouth and even stepping forward to block Aragorn from speaking. Frodo’s hand upon his shoulder silenced him. Only then did Legolas realize what the hobbits were doing. 

“Trust Strider,” the Ring-bearer said, and Merry faltered. 

At once, Faramir took on a wary aspect, clearly noting that he stood among eight others, in a place once held by a fallen ninth. The sorrow which entered his eyes was clear to all, but most especially Sam who bristled up at Aragorn like an irate hedgehog. Legolas did not like the king’s chances against that particular hobbit standing in defense of a friend, but he was wrong to worry. Unlike an elf, Aragorn knew well the hearts of men and hobbits alike. 

“Legolas honors us by sharing a delicacy of his people, an old gesture of friendship among the elves of the Greenwood who feast and laugh more than other elves,” the king explained. “Will you offer him the friendship of Ithilien? For it is his wish to settle in the woods of that place and it would be a fell thing for two princes of free peoples to dwell in the same land and be not friends.” 

Only that he was Boromir’s brother, standing in Boromir’s place, made Faramir someone with whom Legolas wished to eat írilissë. A noble warrior and prince was not the same thing as a friend. Drifting back in his mind to the terrible snowstorm at Redhorn Pass, Legolas remembered Boromir joking about trading his doughty lineage for a spade. Those mortal cheeks, made ruddy by cold and exertion, flushed with life. That was a friend, though Legolas never had time to name him as such. Mortals fell faster than autumn leaves. Yet Aragorn clearly knew that Boromir would want Faramir to have every honor which might be afforded, as surely as the hobbits felt that reminding the much bereaved prince of his brother’s death was unkind. 

In the present, Faramir was speaking. It was a courteous wish of great diplomacy, and Legolas gave him the final írilissë, which he ate with the same dignity shown by Aragorn. Then, less formally, he said, “I understand you hunt, Prince Legolas. I pray you will come for Ithilien Grouse with me one day soon. Never have you met such a difficult target as a high-driven grouse with his wings set, dropped and curling. Not one marksman in a hundred can bag two on a single outing, though I anticipate you shall have better luck than most.” 

“An Elf-friend indeed!” Legolas proclaimed him at once. For along with his wish to do Frodo a kindness, it was also want of activity which sent him chasing the rare ingredients needed to make írilissë. 

“Dare I hope you have a good boar hunt up your other sleeve for dwarves in need of exercise?” Gimli asked the prince with no little interest. 

Faramir’s laugh was not at all like his brother’s. Boromir chuckled or boomed as a son of Eorl might. Faramir laughed as Aragorn did, light and honest and world-wise. “Ithilien will do our best to entertain.” 

“I know a good rub for grouse,” Sam offered, “Could roast up anything you catch a treat.” 

“Would that be your mum’s harvest recipe?” Frodo asked with some little interest. Unlike his polite appreciation of the írilissë, the prospect of a hen roasted in such a way sparked mortal hunger in the hobbit’s gaunt face. 

Legolas resolved to shoot three brace. “I will be greatly in your debt, Samwise Gamgee, if you assist me in such a way. I fear elvish cooking is not much to the taste of other peoples.” 

“Oh, no,” Merry said quickly. “We just didn’t recognize the presentation. They were very nice candies!” 

Pippin tipped his chin up and to the left. “Just put a few more on the tray next time,” he advised, “to be hospitable.” In a show of magnanimity, he added, “I could eat another hundred.”


End file.
